1928
by L. E. Wigman
Summary: A decade past a devastating war, one year before a global market collapse, and eleven years before the bloodiest conflict known to man... so, what's happening with our characters?
1. Hans Schultz - March

_AN: I came up with this idea after seeing some family drawings that Belphegor drew of LeBeau's family, namely his parents on their wedding day. Well, let's just say that my Muse was piqued. ( the link to these drawings can be found in the Forum XIIIc, under the topic: Fanart)_

_I began to imagine what the rest of the Hogan's Heroes characters' lives were like in any given year... so I chose 1928._

_I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it._

* * *

He let the box drop the rest of the way with a small clatter, before straightening and stretching his back. Using his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead, he took a moment to admire his handy work. It wasn't a a department store, but it sure was bigger than the attic above the boarding house. With just a bit more work, he could set out his wares.

Right there he would have little childrens' chairs and table, all nicely smoothed and painted. The sunlight from the store window would glint across them and the passers-by wouldn't be able to keep themselves from stopping to admire them. Gretchen had embroidered a fine new table cloth upon which he would place the carefully crafted tea set that little Marta played with happily. The teddy bears would go on the seat, like they themselves were conducting a tea party. The dolls, dressed in the most modern clothes, would also attend.

"Daydreaming, again?"

He looked up and let out a sigh. He crossed the bare floor to the door and took the last of the heavy boxes from his very pregnant wife. "You musn't carry the heavy things," he said, for what felt like the thousandth time during this move. "The baby…"

"Is fine," she interrupted, "and he will be much better when the chairs are moved in tomorrow, that way his mama can sit."

Right on cue, Hans flipped the nearest crate over, shrugged out of his jacket and placed it down as a cushion. He then bowed in an exaggerated fashion, saying cheekily, "My Empress!"

She eased herself down and rubbed her belly. "Haven't you heard? We aren't an empire any more."

They laughed together for a moment, then each began to study the shop. Gretchen thinking about all of the work to get it ready: the floor would need dusted and polished, as would the counter. A coat of paint wouldn't be remiss and curtains for the windows.

Hans contemplated the stock he would need before they opened. At that moment and not for the first time a seedling of doubt claimed him. The economy was not good. Post-war Germany struggled with inflation that sent the price of common goods through the roof. It had only been a couple of years since it had stabilized. Maybe it wasn't the right time to stick his neck, and his family, out that far. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"What if no one buys the toys?"

His face was so frightened, so worried. She held her hand out to him and when he took it, she pulled him closer, cupping his cheek with her other hand. "Your toys are wunderbar. They're little treasures to the children. They will sell."

He sank to his knees in front of her, his gaze focused solely on her slightly swollen fingers that worked so hard for him. "If they don't, we will be done. No money, nothing to fall back on. I can still back out. I can tell them I've changed my mind, get my old job at the factory… they were sorry to see me go."

"Nein. I've seen how the children light up when you show them what you've made, and how you do, too." She smiled, blinking a few emotional tears away. "You can't go back to tables and cabinets and knick-knack shelves. I have faith in you, Hans… this will work."

He buried his head into her lap beside the child she carried. What would he do without his Gretchen? Perishing the thought, he picked his head back up when she began to stroke his hair. "Come," she said, her eyes twinkling. "Let's get home before the kinder send Aunt Fritzy running back to Dusseldorf!"

He pulled her to her feet and guided her out the door, turning for a moment to lock it. He stepped back and slipped his arm around her waist as they gazed at the little shop.

"You'll have to name it, you know," she whispered, snuggling in closer to him and the warmth he provided in the chilly March evening.

"Schultz's Toy Shop."

She shook her head and he scratched the stubble on his jaw. "What was it you said inside? The toys were like their little treasures?" He swiped his hand through the air in an arc over the door. "We'll call it, 'Die Schätze'."

They stood that way for a few moments the hope burning brightly. Ja, ja... 1928 would be their year.

* * *

Note: I hope to write a little snapshot for all of the characters, but started with Schultz. After what I've put him through recently, I thought he deserved a little fluff.


	2. Andrew Carter - December

Disclaimer: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I'm not making money out of this. Yada, yada, yada... let's get on with the story.

* * *

Andrew Carter lay in the double bed he shared with his little brother and stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling. There was a tiny crack in the paint that jagged this way and that. He frowned, thinking, _my old room didn't have any cracks. _His brother rolled away from him, clutching the blankets as he shifted and pulling them off. Andy shivered and tried, halfheartedly, to tug them back, but his brother had completely cocooned himself and there was no way to get the blankets except to wake the boy up.

He sat up and found his moccasins, sliding the soft leather onto his cold feet. He crossed the dark room and sat cross-legged by the window. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't. He was eight years old for goodness-sake. Practically a man and men don't go around blubbering like babies. Not even when they're scared.

"Andy."

He started at the sound of his name, turning to find Ma standing in the doorway. Her long green dress reminded him of the grass in the prairie that swayed and danced in the wind during the summertime. Which reminded him of the tall, golden wheat that he and Pa had planted so painstakingly. He smiled thinking about it.

"What are you doing up, my Little Deer?" she whispered, checking to make sure her youngest was asleep.

"Thinkin'"

She joined him at the window and with immense grace managed to join him on the floor. "Thinking about what?" she asked, tucking her shawl closer around her shoulders.

A shock of blond hair slipped down into his eyes as he looked down at the floor. "We oughtn't to have come. To Indiana, I mean." Kaya Carter remained silent waiting and listening to her eldest son process things. "It's not fair to do to Cal. He's only four and he won't remember the tree we used to have in the backyard or the barn cats or even the reservation. Then there's Mrs. Pickles! Why Grandpa Carter said she'd have her foal in the spring. I have to be there… she needs me, Ma."

"Cal will have his own memories to make here and we can always visit. I'm sure Grandpa will help Mrs. Pickles with her foaling and the cats are well looked after. The Larsons have a little girl about your size and she was so pleased to care for them."

"What about the Christmas play? I promised everybody I'd be there. I'm one of the wise men..." He turned back to the window as the wind blew, rattling the glass pane and blowing the powdery snow across the empty, cement street. It chilled him worse than any of the winters in North Dakota and he bit his lower lip, then sighed. "It's big here, too big and Billy says that they don't like us, Ma. He says they think we look funny. Do we look funny, Ma?"

She placed a hand over her mouth suppressing a chuckle at the idea her light-skinned, blue-eyed and very blond son would have to worry about such things. "You look mighty fine," she said tenderly, cupping his cheek with both her hands and turning him to look at her. "You, Cal, and Lizzie are the best looking children any ma could ever ask for."

"Stupid bank," he spat, jerking his head away as tears welled up. " I don't see why they had to take our farm. We weren't the only ones to lose our crops. Stupid, old Mr. Faulks."

"Enough," Kaya said firmly. While inwardly she agreed that Gus Faulks was uncharitable and it's true he'd been the one with the power to grant them an extension, but she wouldn't have her son speaking out of turn. Faulks was in the right legally and there wasn't anything to do.

"But, Ma…"

She shook her head. "There wasn't anything to be done. No use crying over spilled milk." Cupping his chin, she again forced him to look at her. His blue eyes, lost and angry, searched hers for answers and guidance. "No matter what happens in life, always look forward. Never back," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "You have such a beautiful spirit, my Little Deer, don't spoil it by holding onto grudges and bad feelings."

Looking into her deep brown eyes, he felt the tears slip down his cheeks. Ma was able to look into his heart, he knew it. She'd be able to see everything he was trying to hide. His anger, his fear, his sadness. He awkwardly pulled away and swiped at the tears with the sleeves of his shirt. "What if Muncie isn't as good as Bullfrog? What'll we do then? What if I don't have any friends like I did in Bullfrog?"

Kaya stood up and then pulled her son up by the hand, placing her arm around his shoulder as she walked him back to bed. "Give Muncie a chance. It might surprise you," she said softly. She put him into the bed, carefully unwrapped Cal, and lay the blankets across both of them. After they were tucked in, she brushed the blond hair up and gave him a kiss on the forehead as he yawned. "Goodnight," she whispered and left the room, leaving the door open to allow heat from the furnace to come in.

Andy lay for a few moment's his eyes fluttering, as he stared up at that stupid crack. He thought about what Ma said. Well, maybe she was right and maybe she wasn't. He'd just have to wait and see for himself. He'd give Muncie until the New Year… If it wasn't good, he'd go back to Bullfrog and live at the reservation. Satisfied with his decision, he rolled over and fell asleep.


	3. Louis LeBeau - April

He squared his shoulders and studied his reflection in the glass. The bright, warm sun gave sharp contrast to the clouds of doubt in his eyes. He could still turn back; after all, he was being helpful to Papa in the bakery, Maman would soon be well, and the pinch they'd been feeling the last two months would be eased. But this was about more than a few extra Francs. It was the food... he must learn.

Smoothing down the hair at the back of his head, he carefully placed the beret back on top. Papa always told him that first impressions were important. A man could be tried, sentenced, and hanged with just one look. Ensuring the angle of the hat was proper, he gave himself an optimistic nod then pulled open the big glass door and stepped inside.

The room was big… bigger than anything he'd ever seen before. He swallowed the lump that stuck in his throat and soldiered on straight up to the maître d'. "Bonjour," he said, horrified that the word had come out with such a squeak.

The man leaned forward on his little podium, staring down his frighteningly straight nose and over his spectacles. The man waited. He could feel the judgment radiating from those serious grey eyes. He forced the lump back down and tried again, relieved that the sound coming out was his true voice.

"Bonjour. I am Louis LeBeau and I would like a job," he stated simply. Papa had also told him that honest and direct was the only approach a man could take. A good man, that is.

The man's eyebrows raised slightly in surprise, though his long, thin face hardly moved. He was like a statue. A grey, foreboding statue. After a moment, he opened his mouth and spoke stiffly. "Forgive me, Monsieur LeBeau. I'm afraid I have no authority to hire," he said.

Unfazed, Louis pressed closer to the podium. "Then who does? I shall speak with him."

"Monsieur Beaumont, the owner. He is very busy. We open in two hours and he must not be disturbed."

Louis remained firm in his request. "I must see him, please. I wish to be a chef. Where can I learn if not in the finest establishment in all of Paris?"

The man shook his head and opened his mouth to deny him again, when a question came from behind him.

"You wish to learn the art of haute cuisine?"

A large man stepped into view from one of the backrooms. His eyes were a cool blue-grey and they studied Louis carefully, scanning every inch of his short frame. Louis noticed the deference the maître d' showed him and the air of control that emanated from him.

"Oui," Louis said, stepping away from the podium and closer to him. "Monsieur Beaumont?"

"Why?"

Louis wasn't sure what he was asking, but he knew it was a test. This was his moment and the judgment could fall either way. He bit his lip, worried that this would make him sound like a lunatic. "The food," he paused, trying to find the right words, "speaks to me."

He cringed as Monsieur Beaumont's head tilted to one side. His arms crossed over his broad barrel chest, as he stroked the mustache part of his beard. "You are quite young and so small," he commented thoughtfully.

"I am nine," Louis protested, "Ten next month. I am very strong. I helped Papa in the bakery often. I carried flour that was bigger than me without trouble. Please, Monsieur, I must learn."

"Papa? Jean-Claude LeBeau is your papa?" Monsieur Beaumont asked, giving him another once over when Louis nodded. He thought a few moments longer. The wait was agonizingly long for Louis who was almost certain he'd blown this opportunity and began to consider what other restaurants might hire him. Finally a broad smile spread across the owner's face, revealing a twinkly personality.

"If you _must_ learn, then I must teach," he said with a chuckle. "But be warned: this is hard work and not to be pushed aside when friends invite you to swim, or fish, or cause mischief. You must put all of yourself into the art. Live, breathe and think of the food at all times."

Louis face brightened considerably, "Of course, monsieur."

"The first lesson: Crepes." Monsieur Beaumont said as he waved for Louis to follow. Louis took a quick look at the maître d', who regarded him coolly with lips which were pressed together in a firm, thin line. He swallowed hard and skittered behind Monsieur Beaumont, drinking in the knowledge.

"Always remember, superb ingredients make for a superb meal… however, an excellent chef can always make the best, even from the worst."


	4. Robert E Hogan - October

"Oh, Robby, where did you get it?"

He flashed that easy-going grin and shrugged. "Don't you worry about that," he said, rubbing his hand over the shiny fender. "So how about it, Susie?"

She hugged herself as the chilly October wind blew against her, pulling one long, blonde curl out of its bun. "Susan," she corrected, slipping the curl behind her ear.

He winked and she couldn't help the giggle that escaped, though she did her best to cover it with a cough. He pushed himself up from the car, crossing the sidewalk to lean against the railing of her porch. "All right, _Susan_…now, how about the pictures? It's Buster Keaton's newest."

"Well…" She looked over her shoulder then leaned closer, whispering, "Papa doesn't like you, you know." That devilish twinkle in his eyes told her that he not only knew, but seemed to get some sort of delight out of the fact. She tisked and then chuckled. "Let me ask Mama."

He watched until she disappeared into the house, then he patted himself on the back. He got Susie Hayman, the prettiest girl he'd ever seen - not to mention the one every guy in class had been chasing after since the start of senior year - to say yes.

"Excuse me."

Robby turned and his good mood vanished. "Yes, officer?" he asked innocently, dreading what he knew was coming.

"Do you own this automobile?" the policeman asked, looking the vehicle up and down. He shifted his gaze to the teen, who had his hat in his hands and a butter-wouldn't-melt smile.

"No, sir." Robby was nothing if not honest. "I borrowed it from my dad. You might know him, Colonel Edward Hogan? He runs Camp Perry."

The officer and his companion came closer. "That's interesting. You see, Colonel Hogan reported his automobile stolen. I'm afraid you'll have to come with us."

H~H

Robby tossed his driving cap into the air and caught it before letting it drop onto his face. He picked it up, turned it inside out and inspected the label. With a bored sigh, he turned it right side out and returned it to his face.

"What do you think your mother would say?"

He sat up, the hat tumbling into his lap and then to the floor. Colonel Edward Hogan - the man, the myth, the legend - stood on the right side of the cell bars in his oh-so-perfect uniform. The black belt across his chest, his ribbons straight and in perfect order. His cap tucked neatly beneath his arm and not one hair out of place, nor a speck of lint to be seen.

"Not much, I suspect, seeing as Mom's been dead for ten years."

The cutting remark found its soft target. The colonel winced and quickly averted his gaze, but not before Robby saw the tears in his eyes. He suddenly felt very guilty and wished he hadn't spoken. Why couldn't he get a better handle on his tongue?

"Well, I suppose we should be thankful that she isn't here to see her son facing theft charges."

And just like that, the guilt vanished allowing anger and disbelief free reign. "You told them I stole the car?" he asked.

"You did steal that car, Robert."

"I borrowed it."

Colonel Hogan put his hand on one of the bars. "Right after I expressly said you weren't to use it since the last time you broke curfew. Or was it for stealing the school keys and locking all the doors to the classrooms?" he said, giving a mirthless laugh. "Tell me, boy, why did you use the motor tonight. Another girl, by chance?"

Robby glared. He was so calm, so in control. He hated that. "Oh, yes sir, Colonel."

"I'll have none of your damned insolence." Colonel Hogan thundered. "You are careening closer and closer to the edge. If you keep it up, you'll fall off and there won't be damned thing that I can do for you."

"I never asked you to do anything for me."

Robby lay back down and draped his forearm across his eyes. The silence lingered for a few moments and he began to think the colonel had left.

"No, you didn't," Colonel Hogan said, his tone softening slightly. "Maybe you'll understand in a couple of decades when you have a... _spirited_ boy of your own."

"I'm not a child, Dad."

The silence again grew long as the colonel looked at his son for a long while and for the first time since Caroline had died he really saw his son. He was a grown man - young, of course - but completely grown. It was shocking. He couldn't quite say when that had happened. When had he quit being the mischievous little devil captured in the picture on his desk? When had his tastes gone from puppies and fishing with his friends to cars and dates with pretty girls? A wry smile formed as he realized that it was probably about the same time the grays in his own mustache became more plentiful.

"You're right, Robert. I'm sorry."

Robby half-sat up and blinked a few times. Had he heard correctly… had the impeccable Colonel Edward Thomas Hogan admitted that he was wrong? His eyes darted to the sole window. Surely there must be pigs flying through the air. "Sir?"

"I said you're right. You're not a child. You'll graduate at the end of the year and then you'll have the rest of your life to worry about. Have you considered what you'll do?"

Standing, Robby scratched the back of his head. "That rather depends on whether I get charged for stealing your car."

"I'll not be the one to shove you over the edge." There was a momentary pause before the next suggestion was posed hesitantly. "There's always West Point."

"And follow in your footsteps?"

"It has been done."

Robby thought this through carefully and the most uncharitable thought struck him first. "Go to West Point or go to jail, is that it?" He asked scornfully. "No thanks! I'd rather be sent up the river."

"No West Point," he agreed, although Robby could swear he saw the slightest droop in the colonel's shoulders. "But you must have some plan."

Robby shrugged. "I just have to find a place to apply my natural talents."

"Heaven help us if you apply your natural talents in the real world. That's the surest way to end up back here as a confidence man." Following that crack, the colonel left the room to arrange for his son's release.

Robby sat back down on the cot to wait, pressing his back against the wall and stretching out his legs. _Confidence man, _he thought, lacing his fingers and putting his hands behind his head. A smug smile tipped the corner of his mouth up. _I like the sound of that… I wonder if there's a way to do it legally?_


	5. Peter Newkirk - July

Young Peter sat at the table in the kitchen helping Mavis with her letters. He'd write a letter out on the slate and she'd say what it was and the sound it made. He was working on the jay, when the doctor finally came.

Judy had been fussing for the couple of days, but early this morning her fever had spiked. Mam was worried and had finally given into the need for a doctor. She'd sent him down to the phonebox on the corner.

"Stay put," he said to his sister, getting up to answer the door.

He slid the chain and pulled open the door, stepping back as the hinges creaked. The doctor, an old cross-looking man, pushed his way in. "Where?" he asked tightly.

Peter pointed at the dim, narrow hall. "First door on the right."

The doctor's slight frame swayed as he passed the table without a look at the little girl. Peter sat in the chair and picked up the slate.

"Peter," Mavis whispered, hoping her voice didn't carry to the old man's ears. "Who is he?"

"Doctor Weldon. He's gonna make Judy better. Now get on with it," he said, passing her the chalk. "This one's jay. J- J- J- … like jacks."

He produced a couple of the little metal toys from behind her ear with a bit of sleight of hand. Mavis giggled with delight. Seizing the pointed objects, she repeated the sound before stopping suddenly. "Jay like J- J- Judy!" she exclaimed. Her face became more serious as she bent over the slate to copy her brother's writing.

Peter grinned and praised the squiggly letter before erasing it with his sleeve. "Right," he said, "now we got kay."

He carefully printed the neat lines as Judy's crying got louder. When he looked up to hand the chalk over, Mavis was staring over her shoulder and flinching slightly with each of the toddler's screams.

"Peter, is Judy going to be alright?" she whispered, accepting the chalk slowly. Her blue eyes were large and frightened and her bottom lip trembled as she spoke.

"Course she is," he said, trying his best to be patient. "I told you, Doc'll give her something and she'll be right as rain."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Doctor Weldon came back through the hallway. His expression was grim and the scowl seemed permanently fixed on his face. "Another Scarlet Fever," he muttered to himself as he went over to Peter and Mavis. "You two, stick out your tongues."

Mavis looked to Peter, who nodded and she slowly rolled out her tongue for the doctor to see.

"Sore, scratchy throat?" he asked, placing the back of his hand in turn on each of their foreheads. They both shook their heads as Mam appeared at the doorway. "These two aren't ill yet, but keep an eye out for the symptoms," he advised. "There is a serum for the girl, threepence."

"Threepence?"

Peter saw Mam's eyes working the calculation in her head. Mam was a seamstress and a good one, but most of the wages she brought in went to rent for the flat and food for them. He knew that sometimes she'd go to bed without eating to make sure they'd have enough. Since Da went away those times became more and more frequent.

She pulled down the tin can, carefully extracted three pennies, and placed them in Weldon's wrinkled hand. "Please, treat my daughter," she said quietly.

Mam and the doctor went back into the bedroom. Peter bit his lip. Tomorrow the rent was due and now, thanks to the doctor, they were short. And this wasn't for the first time, either. The landlord told them that the next time they were late or a bit short, would be their last and they'd find themselves on the street.

He didn't know what, but he had to do something. He stood up abruptly and took his cap from the peg, raking through his hair before placing it on his head. "Lesson's over, Mav," he said, pulling the door open. "Tell Mam I'll be back before dark."

He went down the steps sideways, picking up speed as he reached to bottom step and pushed open the outside door.

It was hot and sticky, and the smog in the air almost choked him. He coughed deeply, thinking back to the bright clean summer days in Wales years ago when Da worked and they could afford to visit Mam's relations.

"Wait up, Peter!"

He turned and spotted Mavis running as fast as her little legs could take her. "Go back home," he said shortly.

"I want to come with you," she protested, jogging behind him as he resumed his pace.

"No. Go home."

"Let me come or I'll tell Mam about you swiping Da's cigarettes."

Peter whirled on her and she bumped into him before taking a step and a half back. Her blue eyes stared up at him with a plea. "Please, Peter, I don't want to go home."

Had it been anyone else who threatened him then Peter would have belted her, but it was Mavis. She was his sweet - though often annoying - little friend who'd been tagging along behind him almost every day since she'd learned to walk.

"Right. Stick close and keep up," he relented. "Do exactly as I say."

She nodded happily and did as he said. While she didn't match him step for step, he was proud that she did indeed keep up, even as they got farther and farther from the flat. She was puffing when he suddenly jolted to a stop, peeking around the corner.

They seemed to have crossed some sort of imaginary line, as the street was full of well-dressed people. Men in dark coats with fine felt hats escorting women in dropped-waist suits wearing long beaded necklaces and fine white lace gloves. Mavis gaped for a moment, taking in many of the niceties that Mam only let her wear on Christmas or Easter and many more that she'd never seen before in her young life.

Peter was also scanning the crowds, but he was looking for something specific. Unfortunately most of them were moving too fast, as Da said, the scheme only works if you don't get hurt.

After two or three minutes watching, he finally found a likely mark. He turned to Mavis. "Stay here," he said firmly. "No matter what you see; stay put."

She looked at him curiously, but nodded her agreement. Satisfied, he slipped out into the crowd, weaving in between individuals and making his way to the street at just the right moment.

He feigned falling into the street and heard the screech of car brakes, audible gasps from the crowd and one woman's sharp scream. He closed his eyes, laying as still as possible.

"Is he alright?"

The question was posed from the owner of the vehicle, who was scrambling out. He swallowed a lump when he saw the limp, scrawny boy of about ten with dirty blond hair.

He knelt down, turning the boy over gently, but seeing no apparent injuries. "Oi, lad," he asked, his voice shaking. "Are you alright?"

Peter slowly opened his eyes, fluttering them once or twice and letting out a soft groan. "What happened?" He asked, doing his best to appear confused.

"You fell into the road. I - I think I struck you with my car."

Peter stood and then fainted against the man, who was so concerned for the young urchin that he failed to feel the wallet slip out of his inside coat pocket. "Easy, lad."

The man set the boy upright and asked where he was hurt. Peter smiled a devilishly charming little smile before putting on a shy, bashful air. "I'm okay, sir. I have to get home or me mum'll be worried."

"Perhaps I should get you to a doctor…"

"No, sir. I'll be alright. Honest."

Peter pulled out of his grasp before he had a chance to push any further and darted up the street. Rounding the corner, he grabbed Mavis' hand and tugged her along. Ignoring her tears and frightened questions, he pulled her into the alley and stopping only when he was a safe distance from the lift.

Mavis eyes widened when she saw him retrieve the leather billfold from his sleeve. "Where did you get that?" she whispered.

He counted out the money and was amazed to see there was over forty quid in various denominations. Da would have been tickled to get that kind of money from a mark. He then found the yellow card that authorized Mr Donald Sailes to operate a motor vehicle. "Come on," he said. "We need to find a phone box."

Mavis totted behind him like a little puppy as he searched for the red box. He found one three blocks over and he pulled the door open. Beneath the phone itself was a shelf where the phone book resided. Peter read aloud. "Sailes, Aaron G… Albert K…" He flipped the page over. "Bertram N... Caleb T… Ah, David C… There he is; Sailes, Donald F."

"Peter," the voice was small and wavering. "What are you doing?"

He looked down at her, an easy - practiced - smile masked his face. "I'm returning this to its owner," He lied. "I have to take a bit to pay for postage, but he'll be glad to have the rest of the lot back."

Mavis just stared, but kept silent - working out what was going on and what it meant - all the way to the post office and then back home. Mam had pitched a fit at the late hour. Worried sick, she was. She angrily cuffed Peter's ear - which he took stoically - and sent him to his room. Mavis crawled into the kitchen chair, as Judy's cries drew Mam to the other room.

She sketched out one of the first letters she learned on the slate. " Bee," she whispered softly, "as in b - b - b -bad."


	6. Wilhelm Klink - May

AN: I'm putting this warning up here: this story intimates at the Stabbed-in-the-back myth, which is Anti-Semitic in origin and use. It was promulgated by the Nazis to rally the average German against those they set as targets, i.e. the Jewish people, the communists, the anti-monarchists. My goal is not to offend, but to explore the mindset of this average German - Klink - who was susceptible to this disgusting propaganda.

* * *

He stared into his beer, the foam sticking to the sides of the glass. He poked at the bubbles and thought over his last day. It wasn't his fault, he thought miserably. He was a man of breeding, a man of the Heidelberg aristocracy! He wasn't to know that an iron which was too hot could burn a hole in delicate silk. He should be the one sending his clothes to be laundered, not working at the laundry!

He swallowed the last of his beer and ordered another. He only had a few marks left from the two days wages he'd been given upon his termination. He'd need to pay the landlord. He was already two months behind. If he didn't, well… he could count homelessness as his next achievement in life.

"Guten abend."

Klink looked up and acknowledged the man through the mirror behind the bar. He was a squished sort of man… though perhaps that was the effect of the beer. His smile swam around on his face, but it was very big. Big and toothy. Klink blinked a few times and managed a grunt.

"I see you've already begun to celebrate." The man's words sounded squished, too.

"Celebrate?" Klink scoffed, "I celebrate nothing… unless one should celebrate abject failure?"

The man took the seat beside him, ordering schnapps for two. "I see you served."

The comment was innocent enough. Klink followed his gaze to the signet ring on the little finger of Klink's right hand. One of the few things he'd been unable to let go of when he was scrounging for items to sell. It was a simple, metal ring with the colors of the flag and an iron cross, for which he'd doubtless get no more than a hundred marks. He'd thought about it, but it was just too precious. A symbol of his heritage, of his illustrious military career. _Illustrious career, indeed! More like never-ending terror. _

The memories from the war played on his mind and he accepted the schnapps gratefully, downing it in one swallow. "Danke," he murmured, as the alcohol burned his throat and settled into his stomach. He hadn't had anything to eat since lunch yesterday and his stomach churned in mild protest.

"My name is Ziegler, Michel Ziegler."

Klink was slowly becoming aware of the fact that this squished man was not intending to leave him alone, but was again attempting to engage him in some form of conversation. He turned in the stool, wavering slightly before returning his hand to the bar for support. "I'm sorry," he began, "I'm not really in the mood for company. Thank you for the drink, but I'd like to be on my own."

Ziegler held his hands up in surrender. "Of course, I understand. I was just going to invite you to the beer hall down the street. It's been set up as a community place for former soldiers, such as yourself."

Former soldiers… he grimaced at the phrase. How could you be a former anything when that world still lived on inside your mind? When it could push you back to the smoke, the sounds, the screams whenever you least expected it? Ziegler was speaking again and Klink tried to put those memories aside to focus on him.

"A free meal is included if you want to stay for the guest speaker. He's from the Nazi party and..."

Klink held up his hand and began to shake his head. He'd heard of them and their radical beliefs. He'd been appalled by their actions in '23; furthermore, he had no interest in participating in whatever revolutionary plans they had now.

"Please, I am not interested in politics," he said.

Ziegler backtracked quickly. "I understand. I feel the same way, but in exchange for sauerbraten, potato dumplings, and some good beer, it seems only fair to listen."

His mouth watered at the mention of the foods. Well, he supposed he could eat and leave, and listening to background noise while he ate didn't mean he had to join them. It was a matter of survival. His better judgment told him not to be so naive, but his stomach grumbled its opinion loudly and he relented.

Ziegler paid for his tab, helped him out of the seat and down the street. Klink felt rather like he was being led like sheep to the slaughterhouse and once again his poor brain attempted to persuade him not to go.

The hall was bright from the electric lights and warm from soaking up the afternoon sun. Klink took in the long rows of tables and benches already filled with men, many of whom appeared worse for wear.

At the back of the hall was a podium and a scrawny looking man with round, wire-rimmed glasses was sorting through a stack of papers. Ziegler led him to an empty spot on one of the benches then excused himself.

Klink suddenly felt very alone. Slowly, he took a closer look around, noticing how many of them were, like him, soldiers from the war. He could spot the haunted look from a mile away. Shells of once lively men; men who had pride in their country, in their Kaiser, in themselves.

Several more people filed in, taking the seats around him. The steady buzz of conversation was silence when the man at the podium tapped on the wood of the podium.

"Welcome," he said loudly, projecting his voice to the back of the room. "My name is Gerhard Fleishmann. I speak to you today on behalf of the National Socialist German Worker's Party."

There was a low rumble of comments as he continued. Klink was listening closely as Fleishmann began with a long list of plights. No food, no work, no shred of self-respect. He almost jolted as the man gave voice to the very thoughts he'd been thinking moments ago. Why was this?

Klink pondered the question, just as he was supposed to when the speaker paused.

"We lost the war," a man from the back shouted.

"Did we lose it?" Fleishmann countered. His brown eyes blazed with the passion of a man certain of his convictions. "I'd say we only lost because of one thing…"

Again he trailed off, leaving them to consider. Klink immediately thought of the poor decisions made. If only the fighting hadn't dragged on. If only…

"I'd say our downfall was a certain people at home... people like the November Criminals, stabbing us in the back."

Klink started.

"I'd say if these people hadn't been dragging down morale - convincing others that we were doomed - we'd still have the Rhineland. We'd still have our army. We'd still have our Kaiser!"

He listened to the murmurs of agreement and shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like the sound of this speech, nor the fact that it was making him so angry and playing on the things he worked hard to keep at bay in his own heart. He should get up and go. The exit was right there, not even four feet away. His head screamed at him to make his limbs move, but he sat and listened.

He soothed his conscience by convincing it that he stayed for the food, for the beer and coffee; however, he stayed long after the food-portion had concluded, listening to the debates that sprang up from his fellow veterans. He stayed until they made it clear that he had to leave and as he walked home, he couldn't get what the speaker had said out of his mind.

It was certainly true that the current government was doing little to improve living conditions. The horrendous inflation and loss of work had crippled the lives of many.

But. what the Nazi party had done was treason...

But then again, what good was being loyal if your leaders ate cake while you starved?

The 'buts' that flew back and forth followed him back to the apartment and through his nighttime routine of hot cocoa and a good book. He pushed them away when his full belly outweighed the queasy feeling he had and he resolved to attend the meetings again. No real harm could be done. They were just men - like himself - who were lost, hungry, and struggling. He'd attend the meetings, at least until he secured some form of employment. Some good food and companionship would be just what he needed. He downed the last of the cocoa and switched off the lamp, falling into an uneasy sleep.


End file.
